


Teach Me

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Falling In Love, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, First Kiss, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Not Actually Unrequited Love, Secret Crush, Walks In The Woods, minor alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 10:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30087594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: A masquerade ball they both despise, a fleeting trip to the forest, a swift fall into love.All in the span of a couple of hours, Linhardt learns more about Dedue Molinaro than he ever could have dreamed. The man is creative, and sweeps Linhardt off his feet with his dancing and his kissing.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: A Lost Ballroom of Gold





	Teach Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of the Lost Ballroom of Gold rarepair zine!

The Blue Lions were a handful. Linhardt had thought as much from the moment he’d first laid eyes on them, all those years ago in Garreg Mach’s dining hall. People from Faerghus were louder; they guffawed over their meals, treating the dining hall as more of a sports pitch rather than a refined place to eat.

They hadn’t changed at all. Now, five years later in the Faerghan army’s council tent, the Blue Lions laughed and chattered and danced as if they had no cares in the world. They danced as if they weren't about to engage in the most fearsome battle of their lives on the morrow — as if they were unaware of the woes in the world. Ignorant, perhaps, was a better word. Foot soldiers weaved their way through the tent between the dancers acting as stewards, serving waterskins filled with what little wine their war provisions had left behind.

It was pandemonium, Linhardt thought. He sat alone at one of the tables, pushing a chunk of braised meat around his plate with a cocktail stick. Annette Dominic hurried past his table in a flurry of skirts, and he heard the salacious giggles of Sylvain Gautier trying to flirt with a disproving Ingrid Galatea.

Linhardt felt transported back to his days at the Officer’s Academy. Closing his eyes, he could imagine the Dining Hall around him; the way the students would gossip and dance around the long, thin tables, their only concern being the Intermediate Class exam at the end of the month. Simpler times, truly. Ones he missed.

At least Blaiddyd wasn’t feral anymore, Linhardt thought with a scintilla of thanks. At least he had his wits about him, and could give a sharp-toothed grin to his friends dancing around him, instead of the brooding, one-eyed scowls he’d fixed Linhardt with so many times before.

Even so — even though his company was good, and the mood was merry — Linhardt felt a bitter darkness swirl in his chest.

How _could_ the mood be so merry? They were at war. The Blue Lions, and all of the Faerghan forces, were at war with the Adrestian Empire. This, their last night before they would storm the capital, partaking in the fight of their lives, should have been a night for planning, and resting, and mentally preparing.

Instead, the Lions were getting drunk. They roared as lions did and sang to the music their makeshift band played haphazardly, all the while wearing silly little face masks made from burlap and shredded flags. A masquerade ball, he’d heard it called, but a rather unsuccessful one at that. The masks looked terrible, and they did nothing to obscure the Lions’ faces. Not like they seemed to care.

Linhardt sat with his back to them, alone. He shook his head and swirled his apple juice around in the little wooden cup he’d been given. _Pandemonium,_ he thought yet again, for perhaps the tenth time of the evening.

Suddenly, somebody sat down in the chair opposite him. Glancing up, his sleepy gaze met the curious turquoise eyes of Dedue Molinaro. Linhardt felt his back straighten at once. As much disdain as he held for his current situation — as much as he’d rather have been asleep — Linhardt liked Dedue. The man seemed to understand him. They were both more quiet and reserved; while Dedue seemed to take situations more seriously than Linhardt, the two of them were more level-headed than the rest of their crew.

“You are not dancing,” Dedue remarked to him. The man was not judgmental, nor confused; the comment was plain — a statement, not a question. Linhardt felt a smile tug at his lips.

“An astute observation,” he gave back, cocking his head a little. “If I might make one myself, neither are you.”

Dedue breathed a laugh through his nostrils. “I am not. I never really was a dancer.”

 _No kidding._ Dedue was a large man — his well-toned muscles built for heavy lifting. Linhardt imagined he was not the most graceful when on the dancefloor. Those powerful arms were better suited to wielding weapons, or carrying the injured away from the battlefield. They stirred cake batter and gardened, and they were damn good at all of it. Now, they were garbed only by smallclothes, and the muscles threatened to burst through the thin material.

Linhardt sighed as he looked at them. They were beautiful arms. And, he realised as his eyes drifted to Dedue’s face, they were attached to a beautiful person.

Dedue had always stood out to Linhardt against the other Blue Lions. He was easily their most attractive member, what with his broad, chiselled jawline, well-shaped body, and the deep rumble to his voice that set Linhardt’s stomach to fluttering. Yet it wasn’t just the physical side of Dedue that was astounding — it was the emotional side, too. While he often appeared stoic, loyal to a fault, he had a soft side. Such a side was visible through his eyes — beautiful seafoam-hued eyes that reflected his inner feelings so clearly. He laughed, but quieter. He mourned, but on the inside, not the outside. Linhardt found himself so deeply, utterly attracted to it — to Dedue’s nuances, and his subtle grace.

The young mage blinked suddenly, realising he’d been staring. He tried desperately to calm the heat that had risen to his cheeks and readjusted himself in his chair. “Sorry, uh, you said you were a bad dancer…?”

The look that Dedue gave him was strange — an almost distant smile, but a warm one. He gave a low chuckle that made butterflies spread throughout the pit of Linhardt’s stomach. “I didn’t say I was bad, no. I simply said I’m not the dancing _type.”_

“Oh…?” Linhardt’s interest was piqued. “Does that mean you’re a _good_ dancer?”

Dedue breathed another laugh and looked down to the table. “How come you aren’t dancing?”

The temptation to speak the truth was almost overwhelming. _Because of the war, Dedue. Because I am far too sad, and scared of the death that might very well await me tomorrow, to even_ think _about celebrating. Because the fact that you Lions_ can _— that you can drink and cheer and act as if nothing is happening — irritates me beyond belief. Have you people no sense?_

He voiced none of that, however; merely breathed an exasperated sigh. “Because I’m tired.”

“Tired of war?”

A spark ran up Linhardt’s spine, and his eyes flicked upwards to glance at Dedue’s: calm, sensible, beautiful. He had seen right through Linhardt’s secrecy.

“Yes,” he responded warily. “I _am_ tired of war. I thought you’d assume I just meant I was sleepy.”

Dedue shrugged. “I know there is more to you than meets the eye. And besides, I feel the same.” He sat back in his seat, gaze drifting over to the makeshift dance floor where the Lions partied. “How can they be so careless, when their lives are on the line? They know the Empire is plotting our deaths as we speak, digging a mass grave for our inevitable corpses, and yet… they dance.”

Linhardt sat in stunned silence, watching Dedue turn back to him and shrug. _Damn,_ was the only word to cross his mind. He gave a little nod and looked over to the crowds. “Exactly.”

“Don’t hold it against them, though,” Dedue spoke softly, voice no more than a grumble over the music. “They are just as scared as we are, but drown their fear in rapture.”

A chill ran through Linhardt as he turned back to the other man, locking onto those aquamarine eyes. They stared back at him for a long moment, almost plaintive, before they blinked rapidly.

“Well,” Dedue changed the subject. He stood from their table and looked down at Linhardt. “If we are not going to dance, shall we busy ourselves in some other way? Make ourselves useful?”

“Make ourselves useful how?” Linhardt replied a little stupidly. His mind leapt somewhere strange — to Dedue taking him by the hand and whisking him away, to them making their own life in a cabin in the woods, away from the war and the dancing and the odd other people. He quickly shook away the images.

“We could forage, collect firewood, refill waterskins... Anything to take our minds away from all of this. Might you accompany me?” Dedue outstretched a hand, the palm calloused and scarred.

Linhardt felt himself blush as he placed his own hand into Dedue’s, feeling small and scrawny as he was lifted to his feet. Dedue gave him a smile, and they sneaked back through the council tent unseen, into the camp beyond.

Outside, the air was brisk, chilly against Linhardt’s face and slapping him to his senses. The sun was setting, illuminating the horizon a pale peach hue against the sky of bleached azure, while clouds drifted lazily overhead. Dedue removed his hand from Linhardt’s and led the way through the camp.

Some soldiers sat chatting around their fires, while others had retreated to their tents for the night. _Lucky bastards,_ Linhardt thought with a slight swell of disdain. They could plan for tomorrow’s march however they saw fit; they had not been forced to attend some pathetic excuse of a masquerade ball, wasting their time.

But then again, perhaps they weren’t so lucky. They weren’t the ones being personally escorted by Dedue Molinaro, the most incredible man in the army, off to some secret location. That was _his_ honour to bear.

He allowed himself a little chuckle at the thought; there was no way in Fódlan that Dedue would be whisking him away, but he could dream.

“Is something amusing?” murmured the voice next to him, and Linhardt turned to see Dedue giving him a smirk through his handsome scarred lips.

 _My own fantasies are incredibly amusing,_ Linhardt wanted to respond, but instead he gave a contented shake of his head. “It’s just nice to be out in the fresh air, that’s all. Away from all of that noise and riff-raff.”

Dedue gave a true laugh then, one that thundered through his lungs and escaped his lips in a beautiful baritone melody. “You are ruthless, von Hevring.”

That may have been the highest compliment he’d ever received.

Dedue led them through the camp to the small patch of woods that Blaiddyd had ordered they set up nearby. It had been their hunting grounds, water source, stock of firewood, as well as decent cover against Adrestia’s scouts on the other side. Together, the two men wandered into them.

The air beneath the canopy was damp and musty, smelling of old leaves and petrichor from days passed. Underneath them, the floor was slightly spongy — mushy from the half-dried underbrush that the two of them waded their way through. The treetops provided darkness, the setting sun prying its way through breaks in the leaves to give the scene a dusky glow, and Dedue wound his way through the trees with ease.

He stopped once they’d reached the river, flowing smoothly past them with gentle trickling sounds. “It is nice in here,” he remarked, looking up at the trees they stood beside.

“Indeed,” Linhardt agreed. He hadn’t been in woods many times before, but the peace and nature he found inside never failed to make him feel at home.

Dedue reached down to retrieve from off the ground a large, thick tree branch. Its wood was pale: a sort of silvery colour the likes of which Linhardt had never seen before. It had evidently been attached to the tree it lay beside, the trunk of which shone the same pale hue beneath the dregs of waning sunlight.

“What sort of tree is that?” he asked, astounded by its eerie beauty.

“Silver birch,” Dedue responded, voice almost wistful. “There was a patch of woods just like this outside my childhood home. It too was filled with silver birch.”

“That sounds lovely,” Linhardt said truthfully. He had spent his childhood cooped up in the Hevring manor, barely ever leaving the city. “Did you play in it? In the woods by your home, I mean.”

Dedue cocked his head. “In a way. My parents taught me things there. Here.” He pulled a small folding knife from out of his pocket, taking Linhardt aback slightly.

“Do you always carry that thing on you?”

Dedue looked up at him, blinking slightly, before returning his gaze down to the branch. He began to carve, the blade gliding through the silvery wood. “Yes. You never know when you might need it.”

Linhardt had never pictured Dedue as the sort to carry a weapon. Ingrid Galatea, sure. Felix Fraldarius, definitely. But not Dedue.

As if sensing his confoundment, Dedue spoke up again. “Not to fight.” He lowered himself down, sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath. “To carve. To whittle. To… craft.”

Linhardt wasn’t sure how to respond; instead, he too sat down upon the squashy ground of the woods, contentedly watching Dedue work. Of course the man did not carry the knife for offensive reasons. Not even for self-defensive reasons. He carried it in order to create things.

He grew so much more beautiful by the second.

After a few long minutes, listening to the wind through his hair and the birds’ evening chorus, Linhardt noticed that the branch had gained a different shape: the slightest curve. It dawned on him.

“You’re making a bow,” he said with joyous surprise.

“I am,” Dedue responded, eventually ceasing his carving and holding the bow out in front of him. It looked beautiful: smooth and sleek, not unlike something one would find at a weapon-maker’s stall in the Hevring territory’s capital.

“It looks amazing,” Linhardt breathed.

“Thank you.” And Dedue held it out towards him. “For you.”

His eyes widened, a warmth blossoming in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so honoured; to be offered such a beautiful gift, lovingly hand-crafted. “For me? You can’t be serious.”

Dedue shrugged. “It still needs stringing, and some arrows as well of course. But these are the sorts of things my parents used to teach me in the woods back in Duscur.”

“You’re a creator,” Linhardt said, overawed. He felt himself begin to smile, butterflies tickling his stomach, as he looked into Dedue’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he replied. “I simply know how to craft a few things, that is all. For survival and such.”

“What else can you make?” Linhardt asked him. He placed the bow carefully down next to him.

Dedue looked around, at the underbrush they sat amongst, fallen leaves and pine needles and stringy roots all around him. Then, he shifted, shuffling over to Linhardt and planting himself next to him. “I have something in mind,” he muttered.

With his large, beautiful hands, Dedue began to pick at the trunk of silver birch he and Linhardt sat beside, bringing his knife back out to pry some of the bark away from it. A large shard, around the size of his face, came away in his hands. He passed it over to Linhardt.

Linhardt exhaled a little laugh through his nose. “Whatever could this be?” he wondered aloud as Dedue began to pry more bark away from the trunk.

“You shall see,” Dedue replied, mysterious as always.

When he had relieved the tree of another face-sized shard of its trunk, he began to get to work with his knife. He chipped away at the edges of the bark to create a smooth outline, gently crafting it into a shape similar to that of a kidney bean. Once the edges were smooth, he poked the knife through the bark twice, carving what were undoubtedly eye holes in its centre.

Eye holes… And bark big enough to cover a person’s face.

“You’re making a masquerade mask?”

Dedue placed the first into Linhardt’s lap, then took from him the other, rougher piece of bark. “I am making us both masks.” He began to carve the other one, smoothing out the edges. “I enjoyed playing camouflage in the woods as a child. My hair matched the bark of the silver birches.”

 _Silver hair, of course._ Linhardt smiled wide at the image of a young Dedue, face youthful and unmarked by the scars of war, wearing a silver mask and hiding behind the trees. It was a sweet image — a beautiful one.

He carved two eye holes into the second mask, and then pocketed his knife, folded neatly into itself, before standing up. “Shall we decorate them?”

The muscles in Linhardt’s legs were comfortable, and they protested as he stood up after Dedue. “With what?”

Dedue was already looking around, traipsing this way and that as he inspected the shrubs and underbrush. “Anything that looks nice.”

And together, they got to hunting. They chatted as they did so, getting to know each other whilst collecting tawny feathers, purple and red berries, and an array of differently-sized leaves. Dedue pinned them all into their masks as they went, fancying their fronts and sprucing up their edges. Linhardt squashed a couple of berries against the silver bark of his, painting little pink stripes upon it with their juice and giving half-hearted giggles as he did.

Once satisfied, Linhardt held his out. “How am I supposed to wear it?”

“It will be easy enough to string,” Dedue said. He held out what he had been working on for the last number of minutes — a few long strands of fibre from inside some sort of plant’s twigs, looking close to twine.

“Teach me,” said Linhardt with a smirk.

When at last Linhardt’s mask was ready to be worn, Dedue tied it around the back of his head, arranging his hair around it. The mask covered his nose a little uncomfortably, but left his jaw and chin uncovered. Dedue’s looked similar, and he tied it around his own head with skill and ease.

“Were you inspired by the party?” Linhardt asked him, peering through the eye holes of his mask at where Dedue stood, broad and proud. Somehow, the mask made him look powerful. It accentuated his jaw, making his eyes shine like jewels. His was adorned mainly by leaves, with large feathers above the eyes reminiscent of an eagle owl’s ear tufts.

“I was. It reminded me of how I used to make my own masks as a child.”

Linhardt looked around. Given the dingy light beneath the trees, it was safe to say that the sun had almost set, but the moon had come out too and was beginning to glow.

Suddenly, Dedue held a hand out towards him. “Let us dance.”

“You want to…” Linhardt stared downwards, at the magnificent, strong, incredible hand before him. “... dance?”

“Just like the party.”

Linhardt blinked up into Dedue’s eyes of seafoam, white glinting within them like the sun off the waves. “Really?”

“You didn’t like the party back at the camp. So perhaps we can make our own out here.”

Linhardt took Dedue’s hand. He felt the warm, hard skin against his own, and made their fingers intertwine. “But I don’t know how to dance.”

“You can pick it up in time,” Dedue said.

Linhardt was taken aback for a second by the other man’s confidence in him. Then, he smiled. “Teach me,” he breathed again.

He had been mistaken. Previously, Linhardt had imagined Dedue Molinaro to be graceless — that he would have two left feet, and be too heavy to dance. He could not have been more wrong. The man danced slowly, but his movements were like a meandering river: effortless and natural. It looked as if he was born to dance in such a way, and Linhardt could not have been more captivated.

Their bodies were pressed together, and Linhardt allowed himself to be guided by Dedue’s movements. His feet followed the steady, assured steps of the man from Duscur, and he felt weightless: snatched up by the elegant breeze of Dedue’s dancing.

He felt emotion bubbling up inside him, forcing its way through his veins until it eventually exploded from his mouth. Linhardt von Hevring laughed high and loud — a chuckle he hadn’t emitted since his childhood, spirited and carefree.

Dedue opened his eyes, smiling down handsomely at him. His eyes seemed to shine out from beneath his mask. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Linhardt said as his chuckles dissolved. Now, he merely smiled — a silly, dopey thing, but he didn’t care. “You just dance beautifully, that’s all.”

“And that’s funny?”

He shook his head. “It makes me… happy, in a strange way.”

Dedue cocked his head, eyes swimming with an emotion Linhardt couldn’t quite place. “I am glad to hear it.”

And Linhardt could do nothing to stop himself from slipping into Dedue’s clutches — into the warm embrace of love that would cradle him as delicately as his bedsheets did, warm and gentle and comforting. He disentangled his fingers from Dedue’s own and wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, pressing his masked forehead against the soft, muscular chest. He felt Dedue’s arms slip around his waist.

“I’ve loved this evening,” Linhardt whispered.

“As have I.”

Linhardt pulled his face upwards and looked into Dedue’s eyes. One of his hands trailed up the man’s neck, to the back of his head, until it reached the twine that tied his mask around his face. He pulled gently on the bow until it loosened, and the mask slipped off Dedue’s face. Afterwards, he did the same to himself.

Their faces were exposed to one another, and Dedue’s had never looked so beautiful. So truly ensnaring, astounding, spellbinding.

Linhardt could not resist. With a cool breeze tousling his hair, chilling his face, he reached up on his toes and pressed his lips against Dedue’s own. They were surprisingly soft, and the perfect heat; they kissed Linhardt back with a muted, contented passion.

Everything was right. Connected with Dedue, Linhardt felt himself relax — felt his body retreat into the other man’s embrace, and felt Dedue’s lips take over. His waist was held in a firm but gentle grip, and Dedue tilted his head so as to kiss Linhardt better.

In that moment, in the depths of the forest, with the sounds of the river and nature filling his ears, Linhardt wished time would stop. He wanted to kiss Dedue forever, to be swept up in the ardour of the moment, forgetting all about war and responsibilities and life.

He almost forgot about the battle they would face in the morning.


End file.
